


Soft Spots

by suburbanmotel



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Near Death Experiences, Out of Body Experiences, POV Alternating, Temporary Character Death, Underage Kissing, tooth extraction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-11
Updated: 2019-09-11
Packaged: 2020-10-14 10:42:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20599436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/suburbanmotel/pseuds/suburbanmotel
Summary: //Death, Derek knows far too well, changeseverything. It’s horrible and heartbreaking, earth-shattering and soul-wrenching, and when you finally come up for air, bit by bit, you shake your head and take a breath and look at everything and everyone around you a little differently, and maybe, just maybe, stop taking certain people for granted.Nearlydying, it turns out, does that too.//“You died, Stiles.”Stiles shrugs. “Nearlydied, Derek. Nearly.”“You weren’t breathing. You were turning grey.”Stiles makes a sound like a wet fart. He waves a dismissive hand and rolls his eyes for good measure. “Whatever.”Derek tries again because this is important. “Your skin wascold. Your heart stopped beating.” Derek blinks rapidly and to his horror he’s blinking backtears. “You didn’t nearly die. Youdied.”He takes a deep, shaky breath and waits for Stiles to say something, anything.“Meh,” Stiles says at last, unconcerned. “Semantics.”//





	Soft Spots

//

As it has been said:  
Love and a cough  
cannot be concealed  
Even a small cough.  
Even a small love.  
_Anne Sexton — Small Wire_

//

“What do you want to be when you grow up?”

Derek says these absurdly stupid words into the almost pitch black and noiseless void. He doesn’t expect an answer, but he really wants one. He’s been talking for hours it seems, starting with mild worry (How are you feeling? Does it hurt anywhere? Are you cold?) and switching fairly quickly to flat out concern verging on panic (Can you sit up at least? I don’t think anything’s broken so I’m not sure why you’re hurting? Just sing a song or something to stay awake) and landing on an anger that feels more like terror (Stay awake Stiles. I’m serious Stiles. Where does it hurt? Where exactly? There’s no blood so I can’t tell what’s wrong. Keep talking ok? I know I don’t usually say that, but just. Keep talking). Discussion has now morphed into quieter, softer gentler questions and comments. Well, _discussion_. It’s pretty one-sided, and he’s getting downright maudlin because he’s pretty much run out of things to say and. Well. Because.

Stiles’ weight, his body, is a heavy thing in his arms. Heavy and soft/hard, skin dusty and clothes dirty over sharp bones and tight muscle. A human’s head is very heavy when it lolls, Derek thinks. Stiles’ head is definitely lolling now, resting against Derek’s chest, partly on his collarbone and just below the curve of his shoulder.

It’s nearly pitch black for Stiles, but not for Derek, unfortunately, and he’s able to see everything. The splintered wood beams and crumbled drywall, fibreglass and cable, the detritus of a building destroyed and pinning them down, trapping them inside. He can see dust motes. He can see Stiles’ chest rising and falling, but just barely. It’s taking way too much energy for him to breathe. The faery’s blast was enormous, fuelled by fury after Stiles had _taunted_ her size and ability, because apparently he didn’t know better than to goad an angry fucking faery, the idiot. The building where they had chased and cornered her has literally collapsed around them and Stiles is. Well. Derek knows some of his injuries are from the blast itself, but some is from her. She aimed right for him and she got him, part of him, even as Derek grabbed him and yanked him out of the way. Because there’s no blood. Nothing is actually broken, bone or skin, so this is magic’s work. It must be. So there’s a way to fix this, this sagging, leaden, soft/hard body he’s cradling in his arms but he—

Stiles coughs. He coughs and turns his head just a bit and mumbles something. Derek dips his head to hear a dusty, rusty word, an answer, he supposes to the stupid question he was so desperate to hear an answer to.

“An _astronaut._”

//

When Stiles wakes up again he’s in the sky. No, not exactly, he realizes. Not the sky because there’s no sky because they’re trapped in a pile of rubble, he and Derek. He remembers a very pissed off faery that Stiles managed to piss off even _more_ and she screamed and he laughed which in hindsight probably wasn’t a very smart decision because then there was a gigantic _boom_ and Derek was yelling and Derek was grabbing for him and when he opened his eyes the first time there was a shit ton of pain and an overwhelming sense of finality. He remembers feeling very heavy and very cold. He remembers Derek holding him. He remembers Derek smelling like leather and the woods around his house and fear. Stiles had never smelled fear before but he knew that’s what Derek smelled like when he turned his head to Derek’s chest. And Derek’s hands were cold and shaky because he was freaked out from the explosion and resulting collapse of the building which was totally Stiles’ fault. He’d have to apologize for that when they got out of here. But first he needed to rest because _pain_.

Now, though, Stiles doesn’t feel cold or heavy or final at all. In fact he feels pretty damn good, kind of floaty and light and happy. He tries to look down at himself, at his hands and chest to check for wounds, but he can’t see anything. Then he realizes he can’t see anything because it’s very dark and hard to see _anything_. But he’s pretty sure he’s up high. It’s all very confusing.

He looks down and sees Derek. Derek is below him. He’s looking down at Derek who is holding someone in his arms. Derek is holding someone in his arms and—

Huh. It’s him, it’s Stiles, Derek is holding Stiles in his arms — and he’s not moving. Stiles isn’t moving. This is very confusing Stiles thinks. The Stiles up in the air versus the Stiles down there on the ground.

It’s a very…interesting sensation. He can’t find the right word for what it is, this being in two places at the same time, so he goes with interesting for now. He tries to move closer, to float, he supposed, down towards Derek and his _body_, but he’s not quite sure how to do that. It’s very quiet and he can hear a lot of little noises, the thudthud of a heart beating (Derek’s), and the harsh whistle of breath in and out of a throat (also Derek’s), and he can hear a voice, low and hard and panicked.

“You can’t do this Stiles. You can’t. I know we fight and shit and say a lot of stuff to each other and you piss me off a lot but you can’t just die. You can’t. I know you can hear me, Stiles. I know you can so knock it off and _wake up_.”

For a moment Stiles is truly torn between leaving and staying because up here he feels good and back there he felt bad. His body from up here looks broken and loose and heavy and it makes him kind of sad to see it just lying there. And up there, past the destroyed building and collapsed roof, is the endless sky and the stars and planets and he did tell Derek he wanted to be an astronaut. He has no clue why he said it. It’s never occurred to him before in his life and he was just being his usual smartass self but right at this moment he can picture it, endless space and dark and quiet and peace and floating. Then he hears a noise and he looks down. It’s Derek. Derek is holding Stiles’ body very hard and close and they’re both shaking. Derek is crying, Stiles realizes with sudden clarity. Derek. Derek’s crying because he thinks Stiles is dying. Or is dead. Stiles isn’t sure himself anymore. His lack of concern over the distinction should worry him more, he thinks.

The fact that Derek is crying about Stiles maybe being dead is making Stiles’ heart feel funny, even though his heart is down there is his not-moving body. It makes him suddenly miss his body and all the things it can do and he really hopes it’s going to be ok, his body, so he can tell Derek it’s ok, and not to be sad, that everything will be ok.

Stiles, almost against his will, moves close, closer, close enough that he can see Derek’s lips moving against the top of his (Stiles’, the body’s) head, which is now completely still.

“Don’t leave, Stiles. Not you, too. Please.”

Oh.

There’s a whoosh and a whump and a grinding of gears or bones and Stiles’ teeth click so hard together his entire jaw, and his skull, reverberate. He bites down hard on the side of his tongue and blood, hot and sharp, fills his mouth. Oh. He’s back then. He can feel hands, big and hot and trembling, on his body. His body, which he’s back inside of and feels not good at all. He tries to move but can’t and tries to speak but can’t. He has something very important to tell Derek but it will have to wait because he seems to be otherwise occupied with trying to stay alive.

//

Derek remembers Stiles dying in his arms and he remembers yelling a lot of incomprehensible things. He remembers other people yelling. He remembers Isaac and Scott and Boyd finally _finally_ finding them, planks and beams and plaster and walls flying haphazardly and he remembers the interminably long drive to Deaton’s office — “He needs the hospital Derek,” Scott says hysterically. “No. He doesn’t. He needs Deaton.” And Derek doesn’t back down because Scott doesn’t know. He wasn’t there and he doesn’t know. Scott also doesn’t understand why Derek will not let go of Stiles’ body, not even for a second. Derek, when he allows himself to think back on the horrific, slow-motion drive to the office, Stiles’ dead weight in his aching arms, he doesn’t know why exactly either. He’s not helping, he realizes. He’s not doing anything except holding him and trying very hard to not think about how heavy and still and not warm he is. He can’t remember the last time Stiles took a breath or moved his chest or fluttered his eyelashes. 

Derek sits still and upright in the passenger seat of Boyd’s car as they speed through darkness through streets and under streetlights and then he’s moving into Deaton’s bright fluorescent office and he still won’t let go of Stiles’ body which is still and heavy and not warm. Finally, Deaton murmurs, low and distinct and urgent, “Let go, Derek. Let me help.” And Derek slowly slides him onto the examining table, shiny silver in the too-bright light. He remembers Deaton asking him questions, one after another, what colour was the light, what did the faery look like, did she say anything, anything at all, how long after did Stiles fall down, when was the last time he spoke, on and on and on and Derek answers all the questions in a voice that doesn’t sound quite like his, at least not to his ears. All the while Boyd and Erica and Scott and Isaac hover in different corners of the bright, white room while Deaton scurries around gathering bottles and sacks and ointments and a tiny bowl and some matches and he talks and works and Derek stands right beside Stiles — the body — and stares down at him. He wills him to wake up. Wake up wake up wake up you’re not dead asshole. You’re. Not. Dead.

And then he isn’t.

Then he’s sitting up, or trying to, his mouth going a mile a minute, babbling about Nietzsche and supernovas and mushrooms and explosions, limbs flailing in every direction while Deaton attempts to move all his shit out of harm’s way and Scott’s enveloping Stiles in a big warm enthusiastic hysterical hug and Derek just stands there, frozen. He watches the colour bloom in Stiles’ ashen skin, slowly at first and then fast, ripening fruit in hyper speed, dust falling from his flannel shirt, caked in the lines of his face and hands. Hands that are gesturing wildly and shakily, eyes wide over Scott’s shoulder, roaming the room, taking in everything. Eyes bright and eager and so alive Derek’s heart clenches in his chest and he staggers back, knees buckling before he falls hard, bringing down a cart of vials and silver instruments with him.

He sits there like an idiot while everyone yells and moves around him, wiping away tears and touching Stiles and Stiles moves and laughs along with them. Boyd finally takes pity on Derek and pulls him up off the floor and Derek stands in a daze, looking at Stiles’ bright pink cheeks and bright brown eyes and his bright voice, saying over and over again, “What happened? I don’t remember _anything_.”

//

Stiles recovers so quickly that no one actually believes he’s ok, which is more than a little annoying. His dad takes him to the hospital as soon as Deaton tells him what happened and Stiles is checked over, head to toe. He sits impatiently, fingers tapping on the paper covering the exam table, knee jiggling until his dad puts a firm hand on it.

“He’s absolutely fine,” says the doctor eventually. He sounds a bit put out about it. “How do you feel?”

“Absolutely fine,” says Stiles, for the ninth time. “I feel great, actually. And hungry. I’d like to swing by McDonalds on the way home for a lot of greasy, unhealthy food.”

He can tell his dad wants to take him home and tuck him in bed and feed him broth and never let him leave the house again, but he just sighs and buys Stiles two Big Macs and two large fries and the biggest milkshake they have and doesn’t get anything for himself.

“You make my stomach hurt,” is all he says when Stiles asks why.

He takes a long, hot shower and puts on pajamas and answers all his text messages before he goes to bed that night, assuring everyone that he’s good, nothing hurts, and no he doesn’t really remember what happened, which, everyone agrees, is probably a good thing.

There’s nothing from Derek, even though Stiles sent _him_ a text asking if his butt hurt from falling on it. He even added a little laughing emoji, but Derek doesn’t reply. Jerk.

And if, when he’s just drifting off that night, it feels like he’s lying cradled in someone’s very strong arms, and he thinks he hears someone whispering in his ear, and maybe even someone pressing dry, frantic lips to the top of his head, he blames it all on an angry faery and her stupid, misdirected magic.

//

Derek dreams that Stiles is dead. Dead, still dead, actually dead, whatever. When he awakes, heart clawing at his chest and breath ragged in his throat and it’s dark, like it was in the ruins of the building, it’s like he’s right back there and Stiles is dead.

Once he’s calmed himself down and has run in the woods for an hour or three, he stomps into the house and glares at everyone he sees, including a very alive Stiles who is sitting at his kitchen table eating toast and peanut butter with Erica, Boyd and Isaac. Scott is at the stove making himself something disgusting involving eggs. Derek’s immediately angry. He wants to smash something. He wants to pick Stiles up and hug him. He wants to go back to bed and sleep for a week, a year.

“Why is everybody always _here_?” he says.

“We live here,” says Erica. “Stiles is here because I like having him here.”

“That makes one of us.”

Erica rolls her eyes. “You’re so hard, Derek.”

It’s something he’s heard many times over the years, from his pack. You’re too hard on us. You’re too hard on yourself. You’re hardened, hard hard hard. He knows they mean _mean_, and unforgiving. Unkind. Angry. Unfair. _Bitter_.

“He’s not hard,” Stiles scoffs. He says it under his breath, but werewolves. All heads swivel towards him. He looks up, looks around. “What?” And Derek gets a feeling Stiles knows something, something private.

Erica laughs. “Yes he is.”

“He really is,” agrees Isaac. Behind him, Scott and Boyd are kind of shrugging and nodding.

“He’s a marshmallow,” Stiles says and blushes and looks right at Derek and Derek, again, gets that feeling, that sensation that Stiles knows something and he’s not telling.

“He’s mean,” Scott says helpfully. “And he yells a lot.”

“Yeah I do,” Derek says too loudly, like a declaration. “And I’m grumpy.”

Stiles laughs, like a snort. “Ok. Whatever you say.” He taps his head with one finger. “I know things.” And Stiles is still looking at him with that expression. The one that scares the absolute shit out of him.

_I know what your dead body feels like_, he wants to yell. _I know how your head rolls against my muscles and how very heavy and still you are. I know things that I didn’t ever want to know._ He doesn’t say this though, of course. He stays hard and he stays angry and bitter and ignores the eye rolling and muffled laughter that follows him from every room he leaves.

//

Stiles dreams about outer space. Endless black and pinpricks of stars. Planets whizzing by him as he travels great distances at great speeds. It’s confusing but cool and kind of peaceful. It’s quiet in space, and this feeling of being completely disconnected from his body is both strange and familiar at the same time.

He also dreams about Derek. He’s dreamed about him before, from time to time, usually after some great catastrophic event that’s nearly gotten them both killed. These dreams are kind of like that but not. Some of these dreams are softer and Derek is soft in them.

“I want to kiss you,” Stiles says in one dream and Derek just nods and smiles and lets him. Stiles kisses him all over, all the softest parts of him, the side of his neck, the tip of his nose, the tips of his fingers, the spots behind his knees, where his thigh meets his groin, the skin above his belly button. Derek’s tongue, in these dreams, is especially soft and when Stiles wakes up he’s very hard and in two or three strokes he’s also very wet.

He supposes one of the reasons he keeps dreaming about Derek is because Derek always seems to be around lately. And he seems to be extra concerned about Stiles in general, and not in a “God you’re so fucking annoying” way.

Stiles is doing his homework at Derek’s kitchen table and gets a paper cut. It’s small but it fucking hurts. He makes a sound and sticks his finger in his mouth and pouts. When he looks up Derek is standing rightthere, face pained, reaching out to take Stiles’ hand. He examines the tiny slice and gets Stiles’ a band aid. He’d probably put it on if Stiles let him but Isaac is watching with his mouth hanging out so Stiles just says thanks and Derek leaves.

They’re out hiking in the woods, all of them, on a glorious September afternoon, and Stiles, because he is clumsy, trips and falls. Derek practically shoves Erica out of the way to get to him, kneeling in the dirt and peering into Stiles’ face, which is red and scrunched up in embarrassed laughter.

“I’m fine,” Stiles wheezes, and he is, but Derek helps him up and dusts him off and then walks on ahead like nothing happened and Stiles chews his lip and avoids everyone’s eyes for the rest of the day.

It’s things like that, things exactly like that, that just keep happening.

//

Stiles gets his wisdom teeth removed on a Wednesday. His dad is working and Scott is grounded for sneaking out to see Allison _again_ and even though both Erica and Boyd have offered, it’s Derek who is waiting in the dentist office when he opens his eyes and blinks and squints. Derek’s face is hilarious. Stiles peers up at him through his anesthetized haze and smiles big and wide.

“Hey big guy,” he slurs. His mouth feels fat and he’s sure he’s drooling. “What’s wrong with you?” Stiles tries hard to enunciate. “What’s wrong with _me_?”

“You had your wisdom teeth out,” Derek says. He looks very worried, much more worried than he should. Lots of people get their wisdom teeth out. Scott made him watch a thousand videos of the aftermath on YouTube last week, just to prepare him. He really hopes he doesn’t sound as goofy as they did. Scott joked that he’d probably say something stupid and embarrassing and that he’d be there to record it on his phone. Ha. Fat chance, buddy. Stiles reaches out a hand. Derek stares at it, then grabs it.

“You’re so beautiful,” Stiles says with feeling.

“He’s all yours,” the assistant says, handing Derek a sheet of paper and a plastic baggie with gauze. “All the aftercare instructions are here, including our number if you have any questions.”

Derek carefully hauls Stiles to his feet and walks him out to the car. 

“You’re very strong,” says Stiles.

“Thanks,” Derek says. He guides Stiles into the passenger seat and puts his seatbelt on. Stiles sits and waits and nods his head and drools.

“How are you feeling?” Derek asks as he starts to drive. “Are you hurting? Your dad is working until 6, so I’m taking you to my place until he’s off and then he’ll come get you, ok? Are you hungry? Thirsty? I got you some soup and yogurt, and I can make scrambled eggs, if you want, or mashed potatoes.”

“Soft things,” Stiles says, smiling around gauze. “For my mouth.” It comes out, _Foah ma mouff._

“For a few days at least,” Derek says.

“You’re soft, too,” Stiles says, head lolling to the side. He kind of mumbles it, under his breath, but Derek the goddamn werewolf hears him. “I don’t care what anyone says. You’re sweet and soft like a great big soft softy marshmallow.”

Derek’s lip twitch but he doesn’t say anything.

“You’re soft here,” Stiles points at Derek’s neck. “And here.” A finger moves up and touches Derek’s hair.

And for a fleeting moment Stiles can imagine it all. Can imagine his long fingers touching Derek in all his softest places, the backs of his knees. In between his fingers. His cheeks. His lips. The lobes of his ears. The spot underneath his chin. Soft, soft, soft.

“You like me,” Stiles whispers, softly. He has no idea if Derek can understand a word he’s saying but he keeps going. He can feel bloody saliva running down the back of his throat and he coughs. Derek looks at him, concerned, like he always is these days and Stiles looks at hips lips, imagines kissing him, quickly, soft, on his mouth, pulling Derek’s lower lip between his lips and sucking, one two three—

“Whoops,” Stiles says.

“Whoops? What’s whoops? What does that mean?” Derek asks, looking over at Stiles with his puffy cheeks and his drool and bloody lumps of tooth crater gauze.

Stiles makes some kind of complicated gesture with his fingers. Then he leans down and pukes all over the floor of Derek’s car.

Oh. That’s what it means.

_Whoops._

//

Two weeks after _that_ Stiles catches a horrible cold. It doesn’t start out horrible. It starts out with a cough. He coughs during a pack meeting and Derek’s eyes shoot up and zero in on him, narrowing intently. Stiles covers his mouth and coughs again. Then, he sneezes. Once, twice. Again. Derek is on his feet and moving towards him before Boyd grabs his arm and tells him to chill. Derek chills for about 20 minutes before Stiles sneezes again. Then coughs some more. Scott elbows him in the side and tells him to knock it off. Derek wants to knock Scott off.

“It’s nothing,” Stiles says when Derek questions him about it as he and Scott are leaving. He pats Derek’s arm. “Thanks for the uh. Concern, though. I’ll sleep it off, big guy.”

He doesn’t sleep it off.

He awakes feeling like he’s been run over by a Mack truck. His eyes are puffy and his throat is clogged. His head feels like it weighs 300 pounds and he’s sneezing and coughing like he’s trying to win a contest. He texts Scott that he won’t be in school and Scott sends back a laughing emoji because that’s the kind of friend he is. His dad brings him water and juice and toast and cold pills and pats his head and tells him to rest and call if he needs anything. He drifts into a kind of drugged out haze, curled on his side and feeling very sorry for himself. When he wakes up Derek is hovering over him, hand on his forehead.

“Derek,” Stiles croaks. “You’re freaking me out here.”

“You still feel warm,” Derek says, considering. “When was the last time you ate? You need more medication, but I want you to eat first.”

When he returns, he’s carrying a bowl of soup.

“Derek,” Stiles says.

Derek stops, cradling the bowl of soup in two hands. Stiles watches from his bed, eyes red and watery, nose running. His upper lip is shiny with either snot or Vick’s VapoRub and Derek is horrified to realize that neither repulses him much.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m just. I’m. Looking after you.”

“Why?”

“You’re sick.”

“Yeah, right now I am, yeah. But before. Before this there was. What is going on? Am I dying or something?” He jokes like it’s funny and it’s not fucking funny and Derek snaps.

“That’s not fucking funny, Stiles.”

“Oh come on. It kind of is.”

“You did die, Stiles. Ok? You did and I had to.” He stops, entirely unsure how to finish that sentence.

“Derek.” Stiles tilts his head and sniffles. “You can relax, ok? Please? If you’re feeling guilty or responsible or something, you can stop. I didn’t die, dude. Not, you know, really.”

“You died, Stiles.”

Stiles shrugs. “_Nearly_ died, Derek. Nearly.”

“You weren’t breathing. You were turning grey.”

Stiles makes a sound like a wet fart. He waves a dismissive hand and rolls his eyes for good measure. “Whatever.”

Derek tries again because this is important. “Your skin was _cold_. Your heart stopped beating.” Derek blinks rapidly and to his horror he’s blinking back _tears_. “You didn’t nearly die. You _died_.”

He takes a deep, shaky breath and waits for Stiles to say something, anything. 

“Meh,” Stiles says at last, unconcerned. “Semantics.”

Derek snorts. The soup slips in its bowl, slopping over the side.

“You don’t get it,” Derek says. He puts the bowl down harder than intended. More soup spills. “It’s fine.”

“I don’t get what?”

“You don’t get what it was like, ok? I was there and you were there and one minute you were fine and then you weren’t. It’s like no matter how hard I held on to you, you kept slipping away and I kept talking and willing you back and nothing was working. Nothing. And I kept thinking, what am I going to do if you die? How will I tell your friends? Your _dad_? How will everyone react? How will they _go on_ without you around? And then I thought, how will I deal with it? And that’s what really freaked me out the most, because yeah, we get on each other’s nerves, but the thought. The idea that you were gone, really gone, was fucking terrifying.”

It’s quite possibly the most Derek has ever said out loud in front of Stiles, a conscious Stiles at least. The whole babbling in the debris of a destroyed building doesn’t count. Because it doesn’t. Stiles is propped against his pile of pillows like an 18th century tuberculosis patient, wadded up Kleenex in his fist, nose running, watching and watching and watching.

Derek closes his eyes and sways a bit on the spot. He is not going to fall down. Not again. When he opens his eyes Stiles is still watching, that way he does. Derek walks over briskly, plants his hands on the slightly soiled bedsheets, leans over and presses his lips to Stiles’ head, right on the top. When he leans back Stiles’ mouth is hanging open and his eyes are wide.

“What.” Derek says.

“Why did you do that.”

Derek tries hard to not look or feel defensive but he thinks he fails on both counts. “Because,” he says and doesn’t elaborate. Because I almost lost you and I’m tired of losing people I care about and I’m tired of waiting for things that might never happen.”

“You.” Stiles swallows. “You did that. Before.” Slowly dawning understanding. Sniffle Sniffle. 

“No I didn’t. I haven’t.”

“I thought I. I dreamed it?”

“You probably did. You have a fever. Go to sleep.” Derek turns off the light without asking. He can hear Stiles starting to argue, starting to ask about the head kiss and what it all means and probably if Derek is actually losing his mind, but he cuts him off with a loud, decisive _shush_.

Then he does what he always does. He turns around, walks out, and shuts that door behind him.

//

Stiles dreams of Derek and whispered confessions and tears and pleas. He dreams of soft looks and kind gestures and wanting and yearning. He opens his eyes and coughs and blows his nose and realizes he wasn’t sleeping after all.

//

Derek avoids Stiles, for a week, two. He’s good at avoiding things, responsibilities, feelings, people. Stiles. He sleeps a lot during the day and runs a lot at night, partially shifted, fully shifted. He does not think about heavy, cold, motionless bodies and grey skin and white lips. He doesn’t think about being soft in any way, or caring, or anything that will inevitably lead to heartache and despair. He thinks he could just keep on like this, running and avoiding but Stiles, being who he is, hunts him down and makes him face reality, of course.

Derek has thrown open the front door of his house for his nightly run and walks right into Stiles, who is standing on the porch looking like he’s going to knock or walk in or run away. Derek looks at him, then looks away. He takes a deep breath and walks around him and jumps off the porch. Stiles follows him, grabs his wrist and holds it.

“Listen,” Stiles says. He looks serious, eyes dark and lips pink. Even in the near dark Derek can see the high colour in his cheeks and he’s so grateful he could cry. Stiles’ fingers are warm warm warm around his wrist.

“What,” Derek says, keeping his voice flat and hard.

“I remember everything,” Stiles says. The toe of one sneaker is digging in the dirt.

“Oh?” Derek pulls his wrist free and crosses his arms and waits. He remembers what? The blast? The dying? Derek falling on his ass?

“What you did. I remember.” He pauses. “I think I kinda blocked it all out. The you know—” he gestures, “—the death part. I thought I dreamed it.”

“Dreamed what?”

Stiles sucks in a breath. “I did die. A bit.”

“A bit.”

“I was uh.” How to explain. “I was out of my body? I guess? Like watching you? Watching us. From like. Up. Above.” He pauses. “I saw everything. And heard stuff. You said.”

Derek waits.

“Did you mean it?”

Derek nods. Stiles purses his lips.

“Well anyway. Thank you. I just realized I never really thanked you. For doing that.”

“I didn’t do anything.” Derek feels the invisible dead weight of him even now in his arms against his skin, pushing down on his chest and his heart under the bones.

“You don’t fool me, you know,” Stiles says, and god help him, Derek knows this. He knows he doesn’t fool Stiles, never has, even before he almost died, did die, whatever. Stiles has always seen right through him, has always found his soft spots and poked them repeatedly until they ache. “I know you.”

“Oh do you?” Derek says. He’s aiming for detached and sarcastic but he knows he sounds nervous and vulnerable. Awesome. Stiles looks like he debating between a few hundred things he wants to say, or do. Derek can see it in him, his twitchiness, the lip biting, finger spasming. What do you want, Derek wants to ask. What do you want from me?

“Can I kiss you?” Stiles says. His voice breaks on _kiss_. He swallows so hard it sounds painful. Derek doesn’t know what to say. Well, he knows what he should say, but he says nothing. He half hopes Stiles will take his silence as a _no_ and he half hopes. Well. Stiles moves closer. Ok then. “Derek? I think I’m going to kiss you now.” He pauses. Again, Derek sends out silent signals. Yes. No. No. Yes. Yes please. Fuck. No. Not fuck. “Ok. You’re not saying anything but you’re not moving away and you haven’t thrown me across the yard so.” Stiles moves even closer, so now Derek can smell an interesting array of scents. Body spray and shampoo and sweat and arousal and fear and coffee and red dye 40 and “Ok. I’m definitely going to kiss you. Ok? Kissing is going to happen. Stiles’ lips are coming in for a landing. Unless you redirect the flight path there’s going to be lip to lip contact in three two—”

It’s a slow motion kind of thing, the kiss. It’s just lips, Derek thinks, trying to stay rational. Two, no four, lips, skin and fat, touching each other. Nothing serious. Nothing life or death, haha. Oh wait. There’s the tip of Stiles’ tongue, too, touching Derek’s bottom lip. Derek jumps but he doesn’t pull back and he doesn’t throw Stiles across the yard. They just stand there under the moon under the trees and let their lips touch and everything is warm and very soft.

Stiles pulls back at last. His chest is heaving but he’s trying to keep it from being noticeable and he’s fairly quivering all over. Derek notices because he’s quivering too and breathing heavily through his nose. He wants to run away. He wants to pick Stiles up and do something with him, but he’s not sure what. He wants to slam his fist into a wall and he wants to kiss Stiles again, badly.

“Derek,” Stiles is saying. “Can you like say something? Please Anything?” He bites his lip, the one that was just touching Derek’s lip goddammit. “I turn 18 next month, ok? If that’s what you’re worried about. Is that what you’re worried about? And my dad, well, he’s just going to have to deal with this. He’s dealt with me almost dying so I think he can handle me dating a guy who’s like, a couple years older than me, right? So if that’s what you’re thinking about, it’s not a problem ok?”

Derek just stares at him. He wasn’t thinking about that at all, though he probably should be. He’s thinking instead about wooing and full-on dating and movies and restaurants and couch snuggling and meeting family members and hanging with friends and adopting babies and sleeping curled up together in one big bed and holidays and birthdays and growing old together. That’s what he’s thinking about.

“You’re going to wait for me, right?” Stiles’ face is flushed and his eyes wide. He’s still biting his lip and clenching his hands and he looks really nervous. Derek can smell it on him. He wants to hug him. He wants to bury his face in the side of Stiles’ neck and just breathe and breathe. So, he does.

Derek wraps his arms around Stiles and hugs him, hard. He lets himself have that, at least. Hugs are ok. Hugs are safe. Except he’s hard and Stiles is hard too because of the kiss, he guesses, and the hug now, and the Stiles, in general.

“_Derek_,” Stiles says. His arms are around Derek, hands bunched up in the back of his shirt. He takes a big breath and tries again, because this is important. “Wait for me, ok?”

And Derek nods and breathes, his face mashed up against the soft skin of Stiles’ neck, and lets himself smile, just a bit.

_Ok._

//

**Author's Note:**

> The underage kiss takes place a month before Stiles turns 18 and, because it's canon that Derek is "a few years older" than Stiles (despite the massive inconsistency later on), he's always a few years older in my writing universe, and 19 or 20 in this story.


End file.
